


Marble

by dollyfish



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Linear Narrative, but basically thats it, gayyyy, nero is an affectionae and loving man bye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyfish/pseuds/dollyfish
Summary: Three times Angelo shares his body with Nero, and what's left in between.





	

 

  
The first time, it was Nero finding out about his sweet tooth and fucking into him inside the cubicle of a car, the middle of the countryside vibrating along with the sound of cicadas and Avilio's cries of pleasure consuming his plush lips.  
And often, pretty often really, making love is like- well, it's like slitting your sinews one at a time and walking around with those weird things that should help you move jutting out at painful angles.  
One other time, it's Nero turning Angelo's body into a starry sky.  
One time--  
"What if I do need you?"  
"You don't have that in you."  
"Can't you-- fuck--" _Be totally fucking wrong for once? What do I have to do? Tell me, what the goddamned fuck do I have to do?_  
"You don't need me. Just as I don't need you, not anymore." Softly; "Need is different from this."  
"Angelo."  
And a strange silence, their answers just like air.  
"Nero, I want nothing less than what you can give me."  
\--Making love is that one last gaze as the bright "Welcome to Florida" signal rushes by them, on the road to nothing.  
_See, there's no right choice and no wrong choice. You just grab an end and pull hard._  
_Chase me. Paint me unmovable. Name me imperfect. Watch how your fingers slip under my skin, just below the collarbones. There. Still._  
_Then watch how I let you rip me open._

 

_Nero... what's left?_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
"Tell me you remember."  
"Remember what?"  
"The pineapples."  
It's a warm memory, macabre at the edges. Angelo doesn't know why he's being asked to recollect something that happened nearly three months and many places ago. "The pineapples."  
"Ah-a." With a nodding gesture, which seems to show a certain degree of self-confidence, arms winding around his torso - as soft as breath against his throat - Nero lowers them onto the fresh mattress, one that has most likely hosted many loves, of many kinds. Gentle ones. Tide-quick ones. Ugly ones. Outside, a rainy day like many others. An odourless moisture lurks just beyond the water-streaked window. Some people seem to find it unsettling, if you want to listen to the chatter of elder ladies who find shelter under ramshackle porches. Some people find shelter in the nightime. Some people, in kissing. "That's it. God, I hate pineapples."  
"Do you?" Angelo smacks his bicep, because he doesn't buy it. Not even a tiny bit. There's just the faintest smile splitting his pale mouth in halves, yet he's unaware of its effect - and it's just like he's lying there naked on the inside, as well as on the outside, for Nero to reach and trail his fingers down that red, damp mess that is the human body completely untangled.  
"My point," says Nero, his thumb and forefinger tilting Angelo's chin up to a different angle, displaying the light column of his neck. Taxes here are tremendous. They'll be on the road again by morning. Everyone they left behind is already a ghost, a wolf in the wind, the Playhouse a skeleton in their minds. It doesn't hurt. It isn't pain twisting their insides in an iron-grip, making them want to vomit. It's roses growing inside their chests, between one town they've made love in and the other, and it will never hurt remotely as much as touching like lovers do at times hurts. "Is, you got the sweetest tooth ever." A chuckle, as low as ocean waves. "You came back with a shitload of canned pineapples that day. I knew then. I knew."  
Angelo reciprocates the kiss that has him spreading right open, for Nero to settle between his legs, and he does that as if he's asking for good dreams, of morning-bright smiles and raspy throats and shards of light on his slumbering face.

 

 

 

Maybe it's that stars shine far brighter than anything before fading away.  
Only stars. There are stars in the soft spaces between the leather backseat and Avilio's oil-slick hair. His neck is exposed for the dim, honeyed lighting of an almost-dawn to lick it languidly.  
"Goddamnit, Nero."  
Avilio's starless eyes return on him. Those, they never get any warmer. The car's roof is a hundred times more appealing than dealing with Nero's strong eyes, his strong face, his strong dignity. The older man's eyebrows are drawn into an expression of quiet anticipation, as if waiting for the panther to throw itself on its side and show its belly. More and more times before Avilio has noticed, without developing any sort of actual reaction to it, that Nero is quite handsome. Boringly so.  
Men are handsome. It's just how things are. Time still passes. The world, it never mellows.  
"Which part of _I'm not made of glass_ do you fail to understand?" Asks Avilio, arms pliant around Nero's neck. Fights the urge to curl up on himself and light a cigarette, mingle the ashes with Nero's unelegant cigars'. There is a cold unfamiliarity in this stolen car that lies on his muscles and makes even Nero's weight upon him feel like a lie the shape of his own mouth. Because-- Avilio's envisioned this. In his mind's eye, he's pulling at Nero's heartstrings one by one to see which way he'll turn. To know which charming word will fall off his tongue now, and then, and then.  
-Avilio has an answer to each and every one of them.-  
"Yes, yes, yes. Do whatever you want with me."  
To take in the dull press of Nero's unfamilar fingers in his milky thighs, the hunger, and the intrigue of this first fuck, which slips right past his skin and settles, extremely quiet, somewhere Avilio can't quite reach yet.  
"No, no, no, I'm not going anywhere."  
To find that Nero speaks, but not only with his mouth and it's a language, Avilio learns, that sticks to the inside of one's body. So one can see stars, then.  
_Please, please don't mind the quiet. This isn't a graveyard. It's my body._  
_I heard kids laughing today. It wasn't in my head._  
_But I heard a kid laughing yesterday, and I wanted to point a gun at your skull._  
_It happens when you carry corpses for seven years. When it gets dark, now, and if I concentrate enough, I realize there's also a whole gleaming universe. Look, it's your doing. Take responsibility._

 

 

 

 

It comes to a day when lingering touches do not exist, and eyes unfocus into emptiness, like salt in the water. The same day, the last person from Avilio's past leaves with a bullet in his abdomen and fingers tightly clenched on an armchair. The same day, Avilio closes his eyes and a raw star is refusing to let him breathe and Nero is inside him.  
The mattress is softer than the one he left to come here, be pushed down, be filled with gruesome, heart-twisting, good-for-nothing love.  
Avilio might have said; "I don't want to hurt you. I still don't want to hurt you."  
Nero might have laughed, loud and brazen, so effortlessly pleasant and just might have smoothed out a little the hard, dislodged vertebrae that kept Avilio's little pathetic will to live from crumbling like hazelnut cake.  
And, unneededly, ridiculously, went; "You've never hurt me, never. God, you're so pale. _Ti amo_."  
But tiredness flows in his bloodstream like thick, greasy cream, and so Avilio just lies still, a steamless ghost in the body of a reactive animal.  
Can he burn to the ground? Please, please? This house. This house, too. Burn. Burn. Burn. This is the house Vincent Vanetti is sleeping, breathing, dying in. Burn. And he's also here, as much devoid of passion as a slut. Handled by foolish, completely adoring hands.  
Please, please. Leave that to the ashes.

 

 

 

  
_Watch how I let your rip me open._  
_There's room to hide anything, if you want. I'm able to carry a corpse inside me._  
_You must have made a temple out of me, Nero. Come inside and tear all the walls down._  
_Here is your heart, the one you've given me piece after piece, remember? I'm keeping it. I'm tired of paying you back with marble._

 

 

 

 

No one ever told Angelo that he would find this at the bottom of the empty bottle they call the soul. Trust comes as quiet, as endless, and it's sticky like candy.  
There are so many kinds of trust.  
Gentle ones. Tide-quick ones. Ugly ones.  
Angelo feels all of them for Nero.  
He's seen everything Nero's made of, like Nero is inside him still, and with him each facet, striking point, vicious flaw; bruise, faltering, kindness, weakness; mask, wound, childhood memory; so this feeling akin to loss is perfectly rationalizable. He wants to see again, he wants to see _so bad_.  
But he doens't want only that, oh no, since the moment he got to brush with wandering fingertips the stiff bundle of well-hidden nervousness that creases Nero's forehead. Human nature acts like an unwelcome guest. If this were _before_ the Playhouse, Angelo would put his hands to use with a lighter; in Nero's mouth a cigarette as expensive as the seconds you can falter before shooting a man, his wife, and his two sons down. Angelo would light it for Nero. There would be the soft press of hand on bare chest, the curl of a smile, a teasing breath on a subtle scar on the underside of Nero's jaw - one not even his dead lackeys knew about. How many things that used to be. Angelo thinks. All he had to do would be fumbling with a lighter.  
Human nature takes pity on no one; it's an instinctual, feral thing, this want to wither and fade into Nero's touch.  
They don't want to see each other. On the sixth day, a car is waiting for them.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
_See, there's no right choice and no wrong choice. You just grab an end and pull hard._  
_Chase me. Watch how your fingers slip under my skin, just below the collarbones. There. Still._  
_Then watch how my chests finnally has had enough of being patient, of being humble, of protecting me as if I was something worth protecting, like not a single part of me gives a fuck anymore, and just like that, Nero, it pulls you in._  
_You sink in naked flesh. In tender bone._  
_In the spirit, Nero. You know what spirit is._  
_Look, it's almost morning-- Come closer, so I won't have to say goodbye, so you'll look at the waves alone;_

_And I think I'll keep your heart in mine,_

_so what's left eventually is nothing._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> when i will myself into writing graphic sex these two are top on the list


End file.
